Something Borrowed Something New
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: The scene before Terrace Duet. Anatoly has a lot of problems in his life but none of them have ever seemed quite as pressing as Florence Vassy, sans Freddie Trumper. Anatoly/Florence. Oneshot.


If he'd thought she was beautiful with her hair pulled tight at the base of her skull, expression polite and detached, and her hand resting absently on Trumper's shoulder, then she was _stunning_ now.

Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, her shirt draping softly over her curves (and_wow_, those curves…), blazer long-gone. There's a red scrunchie around her wrist and a heel to her shoes, prettier than the flats she'd worn to the arena but no less sensible.

He thinks that it must be the worst kind of blasphemy that heads don't turn when she enters. It's just a bar and grill, really - she and Molokov had picked it, apparently after some minor tension - and now here she was, no Trumper sneering beside her, stealing attention away from the masterpiece. (And, he suspects, master_mind_.)

Sans Freddie, Florence becomes an entirely different woman.

He _likes_ it.

"Miss Vassy!"

When the initial shock has passed he springs from his seat, finding that he doesn't even have to plaster on a practiced diplomatic smile - no, for her, he didn't even have to try. _Lord, she has my heart already. _He pulls out the chair beside his, perhaps too eagerly. She gives him a slightly awkward smile and falls gracefully into the seat across from him, instead. He restrains his disappointment and sits back down.

"Mr. Sergievsky." She acknowledges with a cough, apparently uncomfortable. Anatoly wonders suddenly if she'd ever been on a pleasant date to a place like this - he bets that Trumper wouldn't know romance if it bit him in the ass.

He doesn't have long to feel angry on her behalf. She leans across the table on her elbows, giving him ample view of her cleavage and effectively distracting him.

"I'm sorry," she's saying, and he has to dazedly force himself to look back up. It's almost worse - the tantalizing view of her breasts was nothing compared to the way she's caught her lip between her teeth, eyes large and dark and deep. "He's coming, I just - he's taking his time."

_So. He's just as exasperating on a personal level as he is on a professional one._

_I'm not surprised._

Smiling easily, Anatoly mimics her posture. "No matter. It gives us time to chat." He places undue emphasis on the word, hoping to God that she catches it. "Perhaps a glass of wine while we wait?"

He's already had a glass of wine (or two) and the colors of the room seem brighter than they normally would, but there's always room for improvement.

Particularly when it might end up with his face buried between a gorgeous brunette's legs later tonight…

Florence hesitates, glancing back at the door as if Trumper might appear any moment now in a raging fit and stomp over to ruin what otherwise promises to be a pleasant evening. In his opinion the champion wasn't going to show up at all, but his second seemed to be holding out hope for him.

"I suppose…" She says reluctantly, and before she can change her mind Anatoly beams and summons the nearest waiter, speaking in fluent Italian. Florence's eyes remain intently on his face - she seems to be following the conversation with no problem.

_Interesting._ What other languages might she know? Russian? The idea of it makes him giddy, but it poses another baffling question.

Why should such an intelligent woman commit herself to such a misguided cause? He wonders if Trumper is any good in bed, and discards the idea immediately. Usually he prefers not to listen to gossip, but the word on the circuit painted a rather sex-repulsed portrait of Freddie Trumper, and _that _was certainly believable.

Warmth starts up in the depths of his gut at the thought. _Perfect._

"So," he begins, leaning back and tapping his fingers on the table. She lifts an eyebrow. "How have you been enjoying Merano? It is a cheerful little town, isn't it?"

Certainly, Florence must be in need of _some _relief… a wild tryst, a break away from what was surely an exasperating everyday routine, covering the ass of the world's supposed greatest player.

She doesn't appear to be on the same train of thought, although he thinks - and he's probably imagining things - that her cheeks might be a little more flushed now. "An excellent choice for the match," she agrees, smiling in conflict with the detached formality of her tone.

That won't do. Anatoly thinks he could drown in the breathless voice she'd used when she'd first arrived. He has to restrain himself from reaching across the table and earnestly covering her hand with his own in an attempt to bring it back.

Oh, he _could_ have her breathless by the end of the night.

The elegant glasses are set before them, glittering crystal. Anatoly privately thinks that Florence outshines it, and then has the sense to flush at his own inner monologue.

Sometimes he's just obscenely glad that no one can hear what he's thinking.

"Where is Mr. Molokov?" Florence asks, looking up carefully from the glass she's currently holding. Anatoly tries not to wince as he starts from his reverie, taken completely off guard.

_Damn it. _He'd been hoping she wouldn't question it.

"Ah - he is taking his time as well, it would seem." He puts on a charming smile and takes a quick sip of the rich red liquid. It seems to placate her - she smiles back, a little easier each time.

To be completely honest, Alexander had no idea where he was right now. He would probably approve if he did, though.

_I'm not doing this for him, _he thinks mutinously. _I am doing this because she is beautiful, and I enjoy her company._

Sometimes even this much autonomy felt like rebellion. He likes it.

Someone jostles him in passing and apologizes profusely in Russian before Anatoly can even turn all the way to face him. He smiles thinly. "It is fine," he replies, watching the man's eyes rove over Florence across the table.

He murmurs one more apology before hurrying on his way, and Anatoly turns back to find Florence raising an eyebrow.

"What did he say?" she asks, lifting the glass once more to her mouth. The words are lost on him - the dying light of the sun from the large, picturesque window behind her makes her positively _glow, _and he feels his heart throb.

"You are beautiful," he blurts, blinking at her dumbly. She laughs.

"Is _that _what he said?" she asks, amused, before he can feel hurt - and relief courses swiftly through him when he realizes that she's giving him an out.

_God bless this woman. She is an angel._

The next thought makes a bitter taste creep up his throat.

_Trumper doesn't deserve her._

He wonders if she ever has the same thought. Then he wonders if he could make her forget about Trumper altogether, given the chance.

"Yes," he manages, fighting back a smile. "It appears you have _several _admirers, Miss Vassy."

"Florence," she offers unexpectedly, and her cheeks tint slightly pinker as she ducks behind her glass again. Anatoly doesn't think he'll _ever _wipe this grin off his face.

"Florence," he agrees, delighting in the way it lilts on his tongue.

It's been so long since he's been able to smile like this - so hard his face hurts, with real warmth, with no political implications. The comforting familiarity of her presence from the day before comes rushing back all at once - here was another someone who had no fondness for games beyond the board, who was sick of jumping through other people's hoops.

"Call me Anatoly, then," he offers in return, then pauses, feeling suddenly reckless. "Tolya, for short."

The press would have a field day if they ever overheard Florence calling him by his short name, but then, he hardly thinks that such a clever woman - or such a seasoned public figure - would be so careless.

_Fuck it._

She studies him with thoughtful eyes, lips curving slowly. "Tolya. That's cute. I suppose I shouldn't use it in front of Freddie."

He tries not to grimace too obviously at the mention of his opponent. _Get a hold of yourself. _"No, I don't imagine he would like that," he says instead, watching her face over his wineglass in vague curiosity. Was this her way of reminding him why they were here? Had he come on too strongly?

He has a second to feel remorseful for hypothetically making her uncomfortable before she sighs, mouth tightening.

"He wouldn't," she murmurs her agreement, looking down at her hands. Anatoly would give practically anything to know what she was thinking just then - and she must have read his mind, because without warning she admits, "He seems to think he owns me, sometimes. I don't know where he got that idea. He pays me, but I could leave whenever I wanted. We've never been… involved."

His heart is beating just slightly too fast in his throat. _Is she trying to imply something?_

He chastises himself for the thought immediately, clamping down upon it, half out of cynicism and half out of terror. He wasn't meant to be so completely enamored with her - that hadn't been the plan! He had only wanted to make a brief connection, leave them both better for it. This was too much. Too dangerous.

But she's not _dangerous… _She was so much else.

"I had heard differently," he says carefully, hoping to God that he's imagining the hoarse quality of his voice. More than ever he hopes that Trumper won't show up now, if at all - it would be physically painful to make nice with him when all he could think about was this beautiful, enigmatic woman before him. "However, I do know better than to trust the press…"

"Or the word of misogynistic chessmen," she finishes for him, grinning deviously. He nearly has a heart attack. "I'm glad. I wouldn't want you to think so poorly of me. I like to think I'm more than my business partners."

She pauses, looking at him intently for a moment. He wonders desperately if he measures up to whatever it is she's looking for in him.

"I think that's something we might have in common," she offers softly, and that's the _last_ straw.

There is no way he can let this woman slip back out of his life. Not now - not yet.

A thousand completely ridiculous ideas are spinning through his mind as he pushes his chair abruptly back from the table, clearing his throat. "It's rather loud," he says, wondering if he looks as flustered as he feels. Her eyes are bright and she nods, setting her glass on the table and following his example. "Let's, ah - get some fresh air."

"The view _is_ supposed to be fantastic from the terrace," she agrees, flashing him a coy smile from beneath her eyelashes.

He dares to rest his hand at the small of her back as he guides her outside. Ther is no chess to distract them here, nor politics, nor press. Nothing but her and him and the stars and the mountains. The excited buzz of her presence, her voice and laugh and damning smile, has yet to recede.

He's beginning to wonder if it ever will.


End file.
